Now gather 'round, mates and maidens of the mods and mods. Let ol' Seymour regale you with the yarn of how a splendid concoction by the name of Panadiol tiptoed into my life and whisked away the pain gnawing at my biceps femoris like a starved Rottweiler at a meatlover's luncheon.
Some would call it happenstance, others destiny. For me, it was the universe finally bestowing upon my suffering sinews respite, in the form of a celestial CBD cream. Oh me, oh my, haven't heard of CBD, have we? Well, sit tight, young skygazers, for you're about to embark on a Mark Twain meets Tom Clancy adventure, only a tad raunchier.
You see, a fortnight past, my dear biceps femoris had commenced to moan and mutiny, like a disgruntled railroad worker in one of Twain's verbose anecdotes. The torture had taken on an aspect similar to that of an erstwhile maiden, unkempt, uncouth, and unbidden, the roguish lass determining to draw the drapes of my twilight years with blue clouds of dolorous discomfort.
The nights were a struggle. The maiden would engage in boisterous courtship with my hamstring, singing unbothered tunes of agony that would give even Tom Clancy's characters pause for thought. I was losing the battle, the maiden was winning the war!
One fateful day, the cavalry arrived – an unassuming jar landed at my doorstep, bearing the moniker of Panadiol. Prying it open, I found a salve, earth-kissed hue of emerald, sending up whispers of lavender and peppermint. Here was a balm as potent as the spy gadgets in Clancy's thrillers and softer than the down of a Mississippi dawn in Twain's tales.
From the first application, Panadiol tingled on my skin, making the jolly journey from my trembling fingertips and onto the territory of my unforgiving biceps femoris. Then, my friends, began a dance so magnificent it made the waltz look as uncoordinated as a platypus doing the polka. The cream seeped onto my biceps femoris, wrapping it in the kind of tranquilizing blanket that can only be likened to the sensation of sipping on a hot toddy in a writer's snug cabin whilst outside, a snowstorm unfurls its flurry.
And so, the maiden was beguiled, wooed, and well…subdued in a most gentlemanly fashion. Oh, there was certainly some tussle and tangle, a little skirmish here and there, but Panadiol held its ground, and my biceps femoris felt the pain recede, like the ebb of a tired ocean.
If you've ever laid under a plum tree, feeling the sun warm your face while a gentle breeze carries the scent of wild blooms your way, you'd know how Panadiol chose to tackle my agony. Gentle yet firm, unyielding yet nurturing, this cream was a cuckoo's song amidst the din of a metallic factory, a soft-spoken seer among bumbling bureaucrats.
Panadiol, my friends, dismissed the raunchier side of pain from my life with absolute couth and charm. It stepped up to the plate like a suave young chap clad in a dapper tailcoat, took one look at the unkempt maiden, and swept her off her feet, away from my biceps femoris and into the ether.
This old twine knot of a man has found his knight in shining armor, his Ian Fleming super-agent, his Mark Twain riverboat hero! It's been weeks since Panadiol and I joined forces, and now, my nights are filled with dreams of star-crossed lovers and sun-streaked adventures rather than rumbling railways of rebellion.
So, to my fellow hemp-enthusiasts perusing this passage, heed this old soul's advice – let your life waltz with Panadiol. Believe me, it knows all the best moves.